


If Karma Doesn't Get You, I Sure Will

by Polyhexian



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Espionage, Gen, Grief, Memory Loss, Mnemosurgery (Transformers), POV Third Person, Suicidal Ideation, depictions of grindcore, largely canon compliant, yet again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyhexian/pseuds/Polyhexian
Summary: Brainstorm is a liar.
Relationships: Brainstorm & Chromedome (Transformers), Brainstorm/Quark (Transformers), Chromedome/Mach (Transformers)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 47
Collections: IDW1 Canon-compliant headcanons





	1. Gotra

**Author's Note:**

> There's a panel where we see at grindcore what really looks like Brainstorm's alt-mode and while talking about this, I realized that the only way we know about Brainstorm's past, how he met quark, why he became a decepticon informant, that he never REALLY betrayed the autobots is his word. We only know what Brainstorm told us, but it's important to remember: Brainstorm is a liar.

_Judge if you want._

_We are all going to die._

_I intend to deserve it._

-A Softer World 421

"Keep moving!" 

Genitus swore when the butt of a gun hit him in the back hard enough to dent, and he stumbled before he managed to right himself, struggling with the ankle chains binding him to the prisoners before and after himself in line. 

He knew he was going to die here. Genitus might only be a hundred cycles, but he was old enough yet to know that no one gets out of Grindcore. It was too horrible, too deep in Decepticon territory, too well guarded for Autobot Command to care enough to send troops to liberate them. Even if they did, he was under no delusions that an MTO like himself would be high up on the list of prisoners to rescue.

"Open your mouth," snarled the mech in front of him. He held a spiky disk in one hand and Genitus regarded him for a moment, his plating hot and optics burning, seething with silent hatred. Wordless, he opened his mouth.

Genitus followed the line through the barren courtyard of the prison, the smell of ozone and melting metal clouding his senses, thick black smoke curling above the building. The obalisk that was Grindcore swallowed him, blotting out the red-grey sky and thrusting him into darkness. 

Inside, the screaming started immediately.

Genitus heard the mech in line behind him start to cry, but he kept his optics up and steady, dentae grit. He'd lived his whole short life with very little choice in how anything played out. Not the circumstances of his creation, not his alt-mode, not his job, not his name or his station, but he could decide how he died. He planned to die with dignity, chin up. He wouldn't let them see them get to him. Not now. Not ever.

The line stopped and a guard held a gun to his temple while another unhooked him from the chain. He stared ahead. 

"This is your stop," said the guard, leading him down a row of barred cells filled with shrieks and viscera. Somehow beneath the din of chaos and panic that filled the complex, he could still hear the echo of his pedes down the aisle.

"In," the guard growled when he came to a halt and opened a cell door. Genitus stepped inside, and the door was shut behind him.

He took a deep vent cycle, and then looked to his side at his new cellmate. 

"What the hell are you?" asked the stranger, eyeing him through a cracked visor, "Some kind of flier?"

"My _alt-mode_ ," Genitus snapped, "is an F-15 fighter jet. _I'm_ an engineer."

"Oh, great," his cellmate groaned, "You're one of _those._ "

Genitus bit his tongue on a retort, seething. "How'd you get captured?" he asked instead.

"I was stationed in K'th Kinsere when it fell," the big green mech, maybe a tank, grumbled, "They took all of us. You?'"

"Shot down during an ambush," Genitus explained, lifting up one of his broken wings to illustrate his words, "My unit retreated without me."

"Must not be a very good engineer," he commented dryly.

"Must not," Genitus concurred, in a way that suggested he meant something more along the lines of 'I want to engineer your demise.' "Have you been here long?" 

"Long enough."

Genitus set his mouth in a line and turned away. This conversation was apparently over. He crept instead toward the edge of the cell, leaning against the bars to peer outward and down the hall. He could see perhaps five or six other cells from this angle, a few with arms reaching out, others he could not see within. The floor of the hall was soaked with dried energon, thick and dark pink. He sat back.

No one ever got out of Grindcore, but just because no one ever had did not mean no one ever would. He wasn't ready to give up yet. Not until they pried his spark from his chest.

He spent the next few hours inspecting the cell at every crevice and weld line for weak points, counting passes by the guards and listening for familiar voices in the screams. Something. Anything. He was picking at a weakly riveted panel when he heard the clatter of a cart down the hall.

"What's that?" he hissed, spinning about in alarm. 

"They do feed us," his cellmate said, "Not often, but that's the fuel cart."

Genitus pressed his back flat against the wall as he waited, tense and flighty, until the guard pushing the fuel cart passed by. Without looking, he tossed two cubes into their cell and two into the cell across from them, without slowing down as he continued down the aisle.

Genitus took a hesitant step toward the cube closest to him, and then leapt back when his cellmate dove forward and grabbed both, huddling back in the corner with them, watching Genitus with feral optics.

"You can't be serious," Genitus snapped, flaring his wings, "Give me my share."

"No," the other mech snarled warningly.

" _Give_ me my share!" Genitus repeated.

"Make me!"

Genitus waited only a moment more before he threw himself at his enemy, scrabbling against the ground over two cubes of energon like rabid turbofoxes. Genitus dug his fingers under a shoulder panel and pulled until it came loose, but the other mech jammed an elbow into his gut, shattering his windshield and Genitus went stumbling backward, gripping at broken glass. He retreated back to the other corner at a limp, watching his cellmate finish off both cubes by himself. 

Genitus was certain he wouldn't be able to recharge in a place like this, but somehow he did, curled against himself on the floor as the screaming faded into background noise and finally let him rest.

When he woke it was to metallic sounds, clinking and clanking and by the time he was lucid enough to comprehend what was happening, a guard was opening his cell door. Genitus leapt to his feet as if from a springboard, flattening himself against the wall as a second guard with a tazer rod stepped inside the threshold. It was as if all the world had boiled to a pinprick, tinted black and white and red, all his plating flared and vents working over time as he prepared for flight or fight.

The guard jabbed the rod into his sleeping cellmate.

For a moment Genitus didn't understand what had happened, the way the guard didn't seem interested in him at all, but his cellmate started screaming, first the scream of a mech in pain- but once he became aware of what was happening, the guard looming over him, his scream changed to an animalistic cry of fear, feral, unreal. Genitus wanted to shut down his audials and forget that otherworldly shrieking but the guard reached down to grab his terrified cellmate and Genitus _threw_ himself on the guard, clawing at plating with his bare servos.

The guard reared back, grabbing for him, but Genitus was yelling, a wild animal now too, trapped in a cage and ready to fight to the death. He bit down on the guard's neck struts, and when the guard finally slammed him back first into the wall and knocked him off, Genitus managed to take a shoulder pauldron with him. He hit the ground and saw stars, optics resetting. Genitus struggled back to his elbows, energon smeared across his face and oozing out his open cheeks, wild eyed and trembling.

The guard dragged his cellmate away, out the door and down the hall, gone forever. Genitus had never learned his name.

"Lucky day for you, Autobrat," the guard holding the door open chuckled, "You're moving cells. Stand up."

Genitus pushed himself up and to his pedes, wobbling, tired, hungry, hurt. The guard waved him out and he stepped hesitantly forward once, twice, and then followed the guard down the hall the opposite way his cellmate had been dragged. He was led down turns in the corridors and to a darker hall. The guard stopped at a cell. He unlocked the door. He opened it and gestured within.

Genitus stared at him for a moment, and then stepped inside. The door shut behind him. The guard walked away.

"Welcome to my humble abode," said a grimly sardonic voice, and Genitus turned to see an oversized microscope sitting in the corner, a mech locked in his alt-mode, "By all means, make yourself at home. Make some tea."

Genitus stared at him for a moment, chest still heaving, brain processing slowly, before he spoke. "Any earl grey?" he asked, finally.

"Oh, obviously, only the freshest energon brew," the stranger answered.

"Did they lock you in your alt-mode?" Genitus asked, his spark sinking in sympathy. What a horrible thing to do in this horrible place.

"Unfortunately. It would be less miserable if I could _move_ in my alt-mode," groaned his cellmate, "How did they get you?"

"Shot down on the front lines," Genitus told him, and then after a moment, sat down beside him, "pushed into Decepticon territory and didn't make it back."

"Terrible," the microscope murmured.

"You?"

"Taken prisoner during the fall of K'th Kinsere. I was stationed there for weapons research and development."

"Heh," said Genitus, "I'm an engineer. I've been trying to get into weapons R and D for years."

"Ever developed any designs in your free time?"

"Plenty," Genitus nodded, "But no one looks at my work."

"Terrifically unfair," the other sighed, "Do you have a name, engineer?"

"Genitus," said Genitus, "You?"

"Quark," said Quark, "It's nice to meet you, Genitus, even in a place like this."

"It's nice to meet you too, Quark," Genitus smiled weakly, wiping energon from his chin.


	2. Nam

"How long have you been here?" Genitus asked, since there was nothing better to do than talk.

"I'm not really sure," Quark answered, "The lights never dim or change, and my chronometer is broken. I really couldn't tell you how long I've been here at all."

"K'th Kinsere fell three months ago," Genitus said helpfully, "So I guess three months."

"Why ask if you already knew?" Quark queried, though his tone was surprisingly light, almost teasing. 

"I'm making polite smalltalk, mind you," Genitus scoffed, "It's rude to assume."

"Oh, my apologies, I didn't realize the situation called for so much formality," Quark snorted, "So, what's your story, then? What did you do before the war?" 

Genitus adjusted his position, crossing his legs and leaning one elbow against his thigh, cheek in his palm. "Nothing. Wasn't there."

"Ah," said Quark, his voice somber suddenly, "Forgive me. You're an MTO?"

"Mmhmm," Genitus hummed, "Operation Solar Storm."

"I'm unfamiliar with that one."

"It wasn't particularly creatively named," Genitus admitted, "There was a solar storm that was going to bring down communications equipment and decimate visibility. High command wanted to launch a simultaneous assault on the Decepticon front lines."

"That sounds like a bloodbath."

"I'm sure it was."

"You weren't there?" asked Quark, surprised.

"I was," Genitus said in a dry tone, "When we dropped some idiot missed their mark and kicked me in the head. Knocked me flat out cold. Missed the entire thing."

"That's probably fortunate," Quark said, "MTOs on the front line have an average three hour lifespan."

"Do you know what it's like to _miss_ the one thing you were _made for?_ " Genitus asked him, the memory bitter on his tongue.

"No," said Quark, "I don't. I'm sorry."

Genitus chewed the inside of his mouth for a moment until the feeling passed and he sighed. "It's fine. It doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done, and it doesn't matter if you got built or forged by Primus himself," his gaze flicked out to the energon on the floor of the corridor beyond their cell, "You can still end up in a place like this. We might all be born different, but we die just the same."

"Poetic, but untrue," Quark replied. Genitus frowned at him. "That we aren't born the same, I mean. Manner of creation may be different, but physically, there's no way to tell a cold constructed mecha from a forged one."

"That's not been my experience," Genitus shook his head, clouded with unpleasant memories, "People can read it on you a mile away."

"You act like one," Quark said and Genitus straightened up, visibly offended, "You act like you've got something to be ashamed of. It's in your name, in your optics, in your posture. It's not in your CNA though. Not your lines or your circuits or your frame type. A doctor wouldn't know unless you told them."

Genitus eyed him for a minute, uncertain if he was serious or not. "Strange thought."

"Where would you be, if you could be from anywhere?" Quark prompted, "I'm of Rodion. If you could be Genitus of Rodion or Iacon or Vos, would you?"

Genitus didn't want to think about it, honestly. It wasn't attainable. It wasn't real. Then again, he was on death row in a dark place, nothing was real anymore. "Tarn," he answered eventually.

"What a fascinating choice!" Quark chirped, "Why Tarn specifically?"

"Nobody trusts anyone with a Tarnian accent," Genitus went on, "If you were from Tarn, forget mode of creation, you may as well be an insecticon. I can relate."

"It's true," Quark murmured, "The war has brought out the worst in all of us; but at the same time, I wonder if we aren't better off now than we were then."

Genitus blinked once, twice, then tilted his head to the side. "Huh??"

"People die every day now, but people died every day before the war started, too. It was just quieter when they did. The senate ripped some poor sod's hands off and we all looked away and went about our own business. Neighbors starved to death in the streets and we let them. I didn't read _After the Ark_ or _Towards Peace_ until well after the war had begun, but still. I feel now there was a time we could have stopped all this, could have done something and didn't. I wonder if we didn't earn our own suffering."

"I didn't," Genitus said, "I just got here. I haven't done anything. I got pulled into a war that has nothing to do with me- literally _made_ to fight this war I have no stake in! I never even saw the social crisis on Cybertron the war started over!"

"You're right," Quark admitted, "I remember when the first MTOs rolled off the line. Up until that point I had believed I was on the right side of the war."

Genitus picked up his head, blinking his optics. "And after?"

"And after," Quark continued, "I don't think there is one."

Genitus was quiet, mulling that over.

"Maybe," Genitus said, though he wasn't particularly sure he agreed, "But only one side has us in torture prison."

"True," Quark admitted, "At least it's usually just boring." 

They both looked up as music began to play overhead from the speakers, garbled and static-laced but still distinctly music. 

"What's that?" asked Genitus.

"They play music sometimes," Quark told him, "I don't really know why." 

"Huh," said Genitus, "So, Rodion? I thought only manual classes came from Rodion. Not microscopes."

"I was quite an unusual member of my wave, in fact," Quark chuckled, "It was a strange place to grow up." 

"Maybe all places are strange places to grow up," Genitus posited. 

"Maybe," Quark agreed.

Outside their cell began the clattering sound of the ration cart, and Genitus sat back against the wall again, glancing at his new cellmate. Locked in his alt-mode, there was no way he would be able to fight him for fuel this time.

The guard passed by in the corridor. He threw two cubes into the cell. He continued on.

Genitus stared at the microscope, lost in thought. His fuel pump rumbled hungrily. 

"I know what you're thinking," Quark said, after the silence stretched long, "Please, don't. I'm not ready to die."

Genitus shook his head. He was not going to let this place turn him into a monster. He was going to die with dignity. Genitus stood and picked up a cube.

"You won't because of me," Genitus answered, "Where's your intake?" 

"It's under my stage," Quark told him, "There's two adjustment toggles, and a panel seams between them. You'll have to take it off."

"Okay," said Genitus, inspecting the job to be done, calculating in his head the safest way to remove the plating, before he knelt down and used a bent piece of his own armour as a makeshift screwdriver. He pulled the platelet aside and set it down, reaching into a curtain of wires to find an intake cap, twisting it off and gently tipping the cube's contents in, careful of his delicate internals.

"Genitus," Quark said, softly, "Thank you."

Genitus kept his optics on his hands, feeling heat pool behind his faceplate. "It's just the right thing to do. Maybe you're onto something about the war, but," Genitus shook his head, "I never got to pick a side, anyway."

  
  



	3. Darshanavarniya

Genitus panted as he continued to pump his limbs up and apart, doing jumping jacks in the tiny cell as Quark counted for him dutifully. Genitus kept it up until his pistons ached from use and his struts burned with effort and finally he collapsed onto his aft, vents open dumping out hot air as he gasped for cool air to flood his system. 

"Two thousand four hundred and twenty-eight," said Quark, "Not bad."

"At least one of us needs to stay in shape, huh?" Genitus panted, "If we get the chance to run, I plan to take it."

"I will roll right onto my little dials and follow you as fast as I can," Quark said dryly.

"Oh, come off it, I'm not leaving you behind," Genitus scoffed, "Our one cycle cellmate anniversary is coming up, by the way. I'll make sure to pop out and get you some flowers."

"Ah, my kingdom for a working chronometer," Quark sighed, "Has it really been so long? It feels as if time has passed so much quicker with you here."

Genitus looked up at him, blinking, plating still pinging as it cooled. "There's worse people I could have been stuck in a cell with."

"Indeed," Quark chuckled, "Let's go over that gun design you were working on again, shall we?"

"Sure." Genitus flopped onto his back and splayed out his legs, letting his optics close as he imagined the schematics for his latest design. "It's got a polarized magnetic flux capacitor bar along the drag strip of the catch- so when the bullet hits something, kerpow! Rips all the electrons out. Turns it to Jell-O." 

"But how will you prevent it from doing the same to the gun itself when fired?" Quark asked. Genitus considered this. In his mind, he pulled apart the shell of the weapon and began to tweak it. "A protective layer of ununumtrium film inside the casing," he answered, confidently.

"That could certainly work, though it might need somewhat frequent maintenance," Quark posited.

"You're right," Genitus nodded, "Maybe… make the casing itself an ununumtrium alloy?"

"Not many metals mix well with that material."

"I know, but perhaps if I-"

Genitus fell silent when he heard whistling in the corridor. They had heard many things outside of their cell, screaming, stumbling, begging and laughter, but never whistling. It was the same song he recognized from the speakers. He hadn't heard it in awhile, though he didn't know why. Alongside the whistle, heavy pedesteps. Genitus stepped back, wings down as he knelt in front of Quark, knowing that if they came for them there was nothing he could do. 

Genitus did not recognize the great purple Decepticon that passed in front of their cell. He was daunting, massive, thick treads on his shoulders and pedes so heavy they sounded like thunder. He wore a bizarre mask of the Deceptibrand, and he whistled amiably, hands behind his back as if he were merely out for a pleasant stroll.

He stopped in front of the bars of their cage.

"Well, hello there, treasured guests," said the stranger in a voice that implied he might be welcoming them for afternoon tea, "I don't believe we've met."

"...I don't think so," Genitus said warily, wings buzzing with frenetic energy as he fought his useless fight or flight impulse. 

"Genitus of Operation Solar Storm," the Decepticon said, "Is that right?"

Genitus couldn't see a reason to deny it, he obviously knew who he was. "That's me."

"Wonderful," the mech said, and Genitus could hear him smile behind his mask, "I am the commandant of this prison. You, however, may call me Damus."

"...Nice to meet you, Damus," Genitus said uncertainly. 

"I was wondering if I might invite you to my quarters this evening for dinner," Damus explained, "Would that be alright with you?"

"What?" Genitus furrowed his brow in confusion, squinting his optics.

"Don't do it," Quark whispered behind him, "It has to be a trap!"

Genitus saw Damus's optics flicker toward his immobilized cellmate, narrow dangerously and he spoke quickly. "I'll do it!" 

"Lovely," said Damus, "I'll see you then." With that, he turned, folding his arms behind his back once more and resuming his whistling as he walked casually down the hall, through rows of screaming, dying prisoners. 

"Why did you do that?!" Quark demanded, "It's some kind of trap for sure!"

"What's he going to do, kill me?" Genitus demanded, "They can do that anytime they want! I don't have a choice either way!"

"He's got _some_ kind of ulterior motive!" Quark insisted, "And whatever it is will _not_ be good!"

"What do you suggest, then!" Genitus snapped, "I say no and make them drag me out to whatever he wants me for kicking and screaming to be put down like a rabid turbofox? I'll walk to my death on my own two feet, thank you very much!" 

Quark was silent, his lack of expression unreadable, field pulled in tightly. Genitus looked away and sat down on the other side of the cell, uncertain what else to say. When the footsteps of the guard began again in the hall Quark spoke once more with surprising desperation.

"Genitus," Quark said, his voice shaking, "If this is the last time I see you, I want you to know-"

"Stop," Genitus interrupted as he stood, balling his servos into trembling fists, "I'm not- I won't-" He took a deep, shuddering intake. "If I don't come back, then they've- they've just moved me to another cell, right?"

"Genitus-"

"Right?" Genitus repeated, imploring, optics moist.

"...Right," Quark agreed, and the guard stepped in front of the cell door, expression unreadable.

"Which one of you is Genitus of Operation Solar Storm?" asked the guard.

"I am," Genitus answered, thrusting his chin upward.

"Walk," said the guard, swinging open the door. Genitus hesitated only one moment, and then walked, without another word.

The world moved around him, but Genitus himself felt he was standing still. Bars and twisted faces and energon stains passed by in flickering visions, until he was led upstairs, where the walls suddenly became clean, well maintained, professional in appearance. The guard opened another door, and stepped away.

Within, Damus stood behind his desk, facing the wall, covered in pig-metal grey corpses that hung from their arms along the walls, except for one massive stretching window over an empty chamber. Damus turned, optics lighting happily as they fell upon him, and beckoned Genitus inside. He stepped over the threshold, and the guard shut the door behind him.

"Welcome, welcome!" Damus said, waving his open palms toward the seat on the other side of his desk, "By all means, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable."

Hesitantly, Genitus sat down, holding his hands together in tight fists, gazing up at the long dead bodies on the walls with overwhelming anxiety.

"Do you like them?" Damus asked, turning to look at the bodies, "They're first editions." He sat down and carded his hands together.

"First editions?" Genitus repeated, confused.

"Ah, yes, I suppose you wouldn't know, would you?" Damus nodded sagely, "Have you ever read _Towards Peace_?"

"No," said Genitus, honestly.

"Pity," Damus sighed, "Here. Drink." He drew a cube of very fine looking energon from his desk and handed it to him. Genitus stared at it for a moment, not sure what was expected of him. "Go on, then. You must be hungry."

"Thanks," Genitus muttered, taking the cube and bringing it to his lips.

"Before the war, Megatron's writings inspired revolutionary sentiment in the common people," Damus began, "A hope for a better future. He was, perhaps, the first person to honestly and fervently tell most people that they deserved better."

Genitus squinted his optics at him.

"You see, though, Cybertron was a very strict place in those days," Damus continued unabated, "And the powers that be were _not_ happy that the poor, the destitute, the oppressed, were starting to get the idea that perhaps they shouldn't be. Perhaps they could do something about those circumstances. So they sent him off to a mining colony on Nova Point, off planet, beneath the surface. They expected that way he wouldn't be a martyr like he would be if they just had him killed, but he wouldn't be able to write anymore from there."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Be patient," Damus told him, "I'm telling you about the first editions. Where was I? Ah, yes, Nova Point. Megatron met a mech there named Terminus, and when he would write new parts of _Towards Peace_ , Terminus would have the words inscribed in the inside of the bodies of fallen miners, and his contact on the outside would transcribe the texts from them and put them on the net. The Senate found it infuriating. Couldn't figure out how he was doing it." Damus gazed up at his collection lovingly. "It's not a complete collection, unfortunately. I'm still working on it."

"...Why are you telling me this?" Genitus asked again.

"Because you don't know, of course," Damus told him, as if it were that simple, "You are a made to order soldier, are you not?"

"I… am, yes," answered Genitus.

"You were an Autobot from the moment of your creation, Genitus," Damus explained, "You were never given a choice of sides. I asked to speak with you today so that someone might."

Genitus stood up so quickly he knocked his chair over. "You're asking me to join the Decepticons!?"

"Why not?" Damus asked, unmoved, "Has anyone ever offered you the choice not to be an Autobot before? Ever once in your life, Genitus?"

Genitus hesitated, spark roiling uncomfortably hot in his chest.

"Please, sit," Damus said. Genitus looked at the chair, and then stepped forward, righting it and sitting back down.

"No," he said, eventually, "They haven't."

"So, Genitus of Operation Solar Storm," said Damus, "Do you want to be a Decepticon?"

"I won't betray the Autobots," Genitus said, as bravely as he could, "Never."

"Allow me to rephrase, then," Damus held his palms open flat, "Do you _want_ to be an _Autobot?_ "

Genitus hesitated. "What kind of question is that?"

"Do you believe in what the Autobots fight for?" Damus asked him, "Do you believe they fight in your best interests? These people who gave you life only so that you could die for them?" 

Genitus narrowed his optics at him, suspicious, uncertain.

"Well, I had years to make my decision, as Cybertron burned around me, as the Senate mutilated and tortured any who defied them, as those like me died, nameless, in the smelting pits, before Megatron told us all we were worth something more. It would be unfair of me to ask you to make such a decision in an evening." Genitus received a ping, a data packet that made him sit up straight, startled. "Find attached _After the Ark_ and _Towards Peace._ Take these, and a drink for your friend, and peruse its contents. Let me know if you change your mind, Genitus of Operation Solar Storm."

Behind him, the door opened. He looked back at Damus, who was holding a cube of energon out to him, a fine grade, and he took it from him, and followed the guard back down to his cell. The door opened. He stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

"Genitus!" Quark exclaimed, the relief in his voice and his field so palpable that Genitus thought he could taste it.

Genitus took a step forward and then two, and then ran across the room and collapsed to his knees to hug his mode-locked cellmate, whole body trembling like it might fall apart. His lines felt like ice and molten lava all at once, full of terror and relief and confusion, and the world felt all manner of too big and too small, his arms clutched like vices around the only person in the universe he felt safe beside.


	4. Ayu

Genitus was not sure whether it was the curiousity or the boredom that overwhelmed him first.

He held out for two days, datapacket sitting zipped in his storage, tempting and taunting, until he could bear it no longer. While Quark was in recharge and Genitus curled against the wall, supposedly doing the same, he unzipped the package and opened _After the Ark._

It was a short read. Quark hadn't even woken by the time he'd finished, closer to an essay than a book. It was an ironic piece of reading, the fervent assertion that nonviolence was the only way to create lasting change. Imagining the great and mighty Megatron as a pacifist was a bit difficult for him. If Damus had expected Genitus to be moved by _After the Ark_ he couldn't imagine why. 

Genitus glanced back at the still recharging Quark, and then opened _Towards Peace._

 _For Terminus_ , it began. 

By the time Quark stirred, iris dilating and keying Genitus in to his newly acquired consciousness, he was a quarter ways in and enthralled. Now _this._ This was a read that made Genitus understand why the Decepticons were so passionate, so taken. Why they never changed sides. 

"Good morning," Genitus said, looking over at the microscope in the corner.

"Is it morning?" Quark asked groggily.

"No," Genitus replied, "It's nine PM."

"Wonderful," said Quark, voice dry, "Good evening, Genitus."

"Why did you join the Autobots?" Genitus asked. 

"What?" said Quark, sounding surprised.

"When did you join, and why?" Genitus repeated.

Quark paused in thought for a moment. "It's not especially an admirable reason. I saw the rise of Decepticon ideology before the war, and at the time, I knew they were right, that Cybertron was cruel and unfair and unjust, but I also knew that their revolution would see me as a collaborator of the elite because of my place in the scientific caste. I knew if there was war it would be my head on the guillotine, so I joined the Autobots."

Genitus stared at the ceiling, flat on his back. "That's why?"

"The unfortunate reality is I was probably right," Quark sighed, "It was a coward's choice, but a coward that's lived this long."

Genitus was quiet. "But Megatron was right."

"Megatron was not right," Quark dismissed immediately, "Look at where we are. Megatron has no issues with oppression or genocide, he only took issue when it affected him personally. He co-opted the very real unrest of good people to turn them sour."

"Have you ever read _Towards Peace?_ " Genitus asked.

"No," said Quark, "I haven't."

Genitus was silent.

* * *

If Quark realized Genitus was only pretending to recharge while he read, he didn't say anything. It was hard to tell what his roommate was thinking most of the time, when he didn't have any facial expressions or body language to interpret.

_And that is why when you see a stranger, you don't think "What are they like?" You think "What are they for?" You don't think "What are their hopes, dreams, and aspirations?" You think "What do they do?" And then you think "Where are they positioned in relation to me? Do they sit above, alongside, or below? Are they better than me, or I them?"_

Genitus knew where he sat on the hierarchy, and it was below. He'd been formed and created to do only two things, to kill and to die. He had been given nothing else, no education that did not serve the end to make him a better soldier, a better killer.

When he thought about it, truly thought about it, he had no hopes, dreams, or aspirations to speak of. Not outside of his existence as a soldier. His greatest aim in life was to make weapons, and was that not still the discipline of a soldier? He was still serving his purpose: killing.

It troubled him that this was written before the war had begun, that this was how the Autobots and their progenitors were interpreted then, and how he saw the same things in them still. Had they learned nothing from all the death and violence the war had wrought? Had they thought there was nothing to learn?

_My weapon is my burden: a reminder of the path I was forced to take. When the word 'weapon' is emptied of meaning; when the purpose of a weapon is impossible to grasp; when the rejection of my weapon is of significance to no one other than myself... only then shall I remove it from my arm. Because only then will I have earned the right to rid myself of my burden._

Face to the wall, Genitus found himself mouthing the words, mulling them over. _My weapon is my burden,_ the warlord had written.

 _I am the weapon,_ Genitus thought, _I am the burden._ He could identify with being forced to take a path. 

Genitus knew what he was. A thing made for killing. A thing made to die. He was a weapon. He was not a person but a statistic, a gun to be aimed and fired and discarded for a war he had no stake in. He was sitting in prison and counting the days until he would be tortured to death and he had ended up here because he fought for a people who wanted a world without him in it.

Genitus was beginning to feel troubled.

* * *

"Why didn't you leave?" Genitus asked suddenly.

"Hm?" said Quark, surprised.

"You said you lost faith in the Autobots when the MTO program started," Genitus explained, laying on his back with his hands folded over his chest, "Why didn't you leave?"

"Defect?" Quark asked, sounding confused.

"Yeah."

"Where would I go?" he asked, "Not to mention High Command has a bounty for defectors."

"You could have gone anywhere," Genitus told him, "Some neutral aligned space station on the fringes. A warm wired planet. Something in council territory. Just grab a ship and go."

"Why didn't you?" Quark shot back, sounding disgruntled. 

"No one ever told me I could," Genitus told him, re-memorizing the ceiling panels, "I came online and the first thing I was told was that I was an Autobot. I never made a choice to be one and now it's illegal for me to choose not to be one. Does that seem fair to you?"

"Where is this coming from?" Quark asked, "You've been strange the past few days."

"Is it really so strange that I'm questioning the doctrine of the heroic Autobots?" Genitus spat, "Is that inherently abnormal, aberrant behaviour in need of correction?" 

"What? No, I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to," Genitus hissed, and rolled into his side and away.

"Genitus," said Quark, his frustrated tone melting into something concerned and apprehensive, "Are you alright?" 

Genitus kneaded his servos into fists and out again, anxious and full of energy he couldn't burn off. "No."

"Come here," Quark pleaded, "I can't see you. Just come talk to me."

Genitus tightened his servos into fists again and folded his plating tight, staring at the wall. "No."

* * *

_You are not your alt-mode,_ the book told him, _You are the sum total of your own aspirations and accomplishments. You are infinite possibilities._

Genitus wondered, for the first time, why he was a jet. It wasn't like he'd had a choice in the matter, and it wasn't like he even _liked_ flying. 

_Be happy in your work, they say, for it enriches you. Be grateful for your alt-mode, for it defines you. Be thankful for the system- it protects you. Be mindful of your betters- they think for you. I say enough. Reject your work, reject your alt-mode. Resist the system, and your "betters?" You have none. We are all equal, and we have a right to decide how to live our lives._

This was the great Decepticon manifesto? _This_ was what the war was about? _This_ was the ideology that Optimus Prime was leading the Autobots against? This was the outlook he had been born to die fighting?

His tanks roiled and if he were not constantly on the brink of starving to death he thought he might purge. Genitus felt bitter, disillusioned, _angry._

"Genitus," Quark said quietly, "We're all we've got. We've made it this far, we can't fall apart now. You have to tell me what's wrong."

"Oh, I _have_ to?!" Genitus snapped, turning around, "I think I've had my fill of being told what I _have_ to do, thank you very much!" 

"I don't understand what's gotten into you," Quark lamented, "I don't know how to help you. I don't know why you won't let me." 

Genitus stood up, facing his cellmate. He towered over him, the microscope barely reaching past his waist. "Because I don't need help. There's nothing wrong with me," he hissed, "And there never _was._ "

"I never said there was anything wrong with you!" Quark insisted, "Genitus, I think you're wonderful!"

"You think you're better than me."

"I don't! Genitus, I don't!" 

"Why did you let them make me!?" Genitus cried, clenching his hands into fists as his optics watered, "Why did you back down and join the side you knew was wrong!? Why did you _stay_ when they started building people just to die!? Why didn't you _leave_ when you realized the Autobots were the bad guys?!"

"The Decepticons _aren't_ the good guys, Genitus, there _are_ no good guys in this war!"

"But you, _you_ could make your own choices and _you_ chose to stay! I never had a choice and you did and you _chose to stay!_ "

"Genitus…"

"My weapon is my burden," Genitus muttered hoarsely, "A reminder of the path I was forced to take."

"Genitus," Quark whispered, "You are more than a weapon. You're a brilliant, kind mech. You can choose any path you want. Please. Just talk to me. Let me help you."

Genitus stared at the ground, spark roiling in his chest, hands clenched at his sides. He cycled air through his vents, trembling with his thoughts- and then one of the pistons in his arm snapped, the brittle material he had been constructed with buckling beneath the force of his anger. 

"Guard!" Genitus yelled, grabbing the bars of his cell, "Guard! I need to see the commandant!"

"What?!" Quark gasped, "What are you doing?!"

"I'm _leaving_ ," Genitus snapped.

"You're _leaving?!_ " 

"I'm choosing my own path," he hissed. The sound of footfalls in the hall signalled the approach of the guard.

"No, no, no, Genitus- Genitus, don't do this, whatever you're doing, this is _not_ the way to get it done, you're making a mistake-" Quark began to stammer, "Genitus, please don't leave. Please don't leave me."

The guard stepped up in front of the cell and opened the door. Genitus stood for a moment more.

"Give me one good reason not to."

"Genitus…" Quark pleaded, "I love you."

Genitus flinched, as if struck. For a moment, just one, Quark thought he would turn around and come back.

Genitus stepped out of the cell. "I'm sorry, Quark," he said hoarsely, "But I guess it's more of a one way thing."

The guard slammed the cell door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao okay... I know this is a hot take but I feel INSPIRED because I realized when I looked at the wording specifically for what brainstorm says about quark is... Rewind says "YOU had a conjunx endura?" And brainstorm says "yes. Yes and no. It was more of a one way thing." He doesn't actually say which way that way went lol. And it occurred to me that perhaps the reason he says yes and no, and not a firm no is that he feels confident they could have been- if quark loved him and he turned him down only to regret it later? Hmmmmmmmm


	5. Mohaneeya

"Would you believe that I am not surprised to see you again, Genitus?"

Genitus sat in front of Damus's desk, his optics burning with resolution. "I would," he answered, "You were right."

"You deserve better than the Autobots can offer you," Damus told him, carding his servos, "I'm delighted to be the one to right such a wrong."

"What do you need from me?" Genitus asked.

"Do you know what Deceptibranding entails?" Genitus shook his head. "Unlike Autobots, who mass produce their faction symbols, Decepticons consider our faction a way of life, an ideology. To symbolize that commitment, every Deceptibrand is forged individually. It's a ritual."

Genitus's optics glimmered. "What do I do?"

Damus opened his desk and removed two items, a small press mold and what looked like a shallow ice-cream scoop. He tapped the scoop. "You, and no one else, must symbolize your commitment to the cause and the Decepticon ideals by harvesting raw material directly from your spark chamber. That is used to create your brand."

Genitus stared at the scoop, frozen. "My spark chamber?" 

Genitus nearly jumped back as Damus's chest plating folded open and he gestured within. Genitus had never seen a point one percenter's spark before, but it's green glow bathed him in warmth, and he could see the shallow divot carved into the outer casing.

"We all wear our scars with pride," Damus explained, "It is proof of our burden. Being a Decepticon is to be more than a soldier."

Genitus felt his spark pulse hiccup, mouth parted in awe, before he set his jaw, determination surging through his lines and spiralled open his chest plating. He grabbed the scoop from the desk, and before he could talk himself out of it, jammed it into the outer casing of his spark chamber.

It was pain like he'd never felt before, at his deepest, most intimate point. He pulled the scoop away with its precious cargo and slammed it on the desk, gasping, cycling his chest shut and covering it with his arms.

Damus closed his chest and nodded solemnly. "I knew I was right to believe in you, Genitus." He pushed the press plate across the desk. "It's very simple. The material goes in here, and then you simply shut and hold it for a few seconds."

Genitus pulled the mold toward him and held it open, like a tiny briefcase, looking at the shape of the Deceptibrand within. He picked up the piece of his spark chamber in his fingers, chest still aching, and placed it within the mold, closing it with both hands. It flared with heat beneath his fingers and hissed, pouring out steam. He opened it again.

Within, still warm, sat his faction symbol, carved and forged from his own body, as much a part of him as his arms and his optics. 

"Are you ready to serve the Decepticons, Genitus?"

Genitus looked up from his brand, optics flared. 

"Yes."

Outside, a theoretician in chains stood in line for processing.

* * *

Mechs parted like the red sea as he came to a near crash landing on the Iacon flight strip, pouring black smoke from his engines as he skidded scores the tarmac and finally came to a stuttering halt at the end. There was a moment of peace before Autobots began rolling in and someone sprayed him with flame retardant. He transformed to his root mode, panting as he struggled to vent through his new battle mask.

"I've escaped from Grindcore-" he coughed, looking up at the first soldier who approached him, "During a prisoner transfer- I barely made it out."

"Primus," the officer gasped, "You're lucky to be alive."

"I don't know if lucky is the word I would use," he squeezed, "I've seen things… things I'll never unsee."

"What's your name, soldier?" The Autobot offered him a servo to help him stand.

He took it. "Solarstorm," he answered, "Solarstorm of Tarn."

* * *

"I don't have much time to dedicate to you," Thalamy said, walking briskly, "So I hope you're good at adapting."

"Absolutely!" Solarstorm nodded quickly, "Just set me up in a lab and you'll be seeing results immediately."

"Perfect," Thalamy nodded, "This position has a high turnover rate. You'll need to impress if you intend to keep it."

"Don't worry," Solarstorm assured him, "I aim to impress."

Thalamy keyed open a door. "Welcome to weapons research and development," he said, gesturing within, where a few scattered mechs were working at individual stations, "Your supervisor is Mach. Please report to him for any further instruction."

"Yes, sir!" Solarstorm nodded enthusiastically. Thalamy left him and Solarstorm stepped into the room, door sliding shut behind him. 

"You!" called a voice, and Solarstorm looked in the direction it came from. A blue and white mech that looked like he might have been some kind of space shuttle navigated quickly around the rows of desks and lab stations toward him.

"Me?" said Solarstorm.

"You're the new engineer," said the shuttle, "My name is Mach. I will be your direct supervisor in this department. Have you been briefed on the position?"

He gestured for Solarstorm to follow him through the lab. 

"Somewhat," said Solarstorm, "Though the classified nature of most of the New Institute's activities mean that I don't know all the details."

"Well, welcome to the crash course," Mach answered, "Your main focus in this position is development of creative weaponry. As you know, this department and it's activities are classified- what I mean by that is that your designs and prototypes are subject to no ethics committee or laws. Whether or not a design will be implemented on the field is a decision left up to those in the field, not us. So, here, anything you come up with goes."

"Fun," commented Solarstorm. He wished he was surprised by this revelation about the Autobots secret weapons development, but he wasn't.

"Your secondary function, if you're given the position permanently, will be to train under Thalamy in the construction, maintenance and installation of mnemosurgery needles. We get new trainees all the time and everyone needs to double working with them to keep them tip top."

"Shouldn't that be done by a medic?" Solarstorm queried.

"Oh, absolutely," Mach rolled his optical display behind his visor, and came to a stop in front of a desk, "But medics are in short supply these days. We only have two in the facility and they're too busy with injuries to do all mnemosurgeon maintenance. Don't worry, it'll become rote quickly enough. In any case, this is your station."

Solarstorm looked down at the lab strip. Fully outfitted, tools he would need for prototype construction, running tests, three computer terminals- he could feel his optics brighten looking at it. 

"Can I get started?" Solarstorm asked, "I didn't have much to do at Grindcore but brainstorm."

"Initiative! I like to see it. By all means, break in your desk. If you have any more questions, come find me, any time."

"Will do."

Mach left him, and Solarstorm stepped up to his desk, running his servos over his new desk. Incredible how quickly he'd climbed to this position after just claiming to be forged. It disgusted him.

He sat down and got to work.

* * *

Solarstorm lingered by the back wall of the cafeteria, eyeing the crowd. It was bigger than he anticipated, but still smaller than he was used to. Most of his new co-workers sat in groups at the tables, clearly defined cliques that betrayed how little contact they had with the outside world.

Toward the back, sitting alone at a table was a blocky yellow-orange Cybe, his face hidden behind a battle mask and a visor, staring down into his energon in silence. A loner. Vulnerable. Perfect.

Solarstorm grabbed his ration and made his way over to the loner and plopped down in front of him. The stranger startled, jerking up in surprise, nearly spilling his cube.

"Hi!" said Solarstorm, "I'm the new engineer! What's your name?"

"Uh," said the stranger, "Tumbler. But everyone calls me Chromedome." The way he said Chromedome was oddly pointed, as if he were supposed to gleam something from that.

"Well, I'm Solarstorm! Everyone calls me Solarstorm!" He grinned behind his blastmask and hoped it reached his optics. "What do you do here?"

Chromedome eyed him suspiciously and then sighed. "Technically classified, but it's not like it matters. I'm a mnemosurgeon. Thus the name."

Solarstorm tilted his head to the side curiously. 

"The head theme," Chromedome explained, "Anyone with a head themed name here is probably a mnemosurgeon."

"Oh!" exclaimed Solarstorm, "Neat!"

"You really are new," Chromedome sighed, "I'm surprised no one told you that already."

"I haven't really talked to anyone but my supervisor yet," Solarstorm explained, "You're my first friend, actually."

Chromedome jerked up, startled again, and stared at him. "Friend?" he asked, baffled.

Solarstorm nodded emphatically. "Well, sure! Why not?"

Chromedome regarded him for a moment, suspicious and confused, long enough Solarstorm wondered if he was going to tell him to frag off.

"...Yeah, alright, I guess," Chromedome relented, "Why not?"

Solarstorm smiled. Befriending a lonely mnemosurgeon was the perfect opportunity to get more Autobot secrets to pass on to his handler. Within a month, he had become a more important Decepticon than he ever would have been allowed to become as an Autobot.

"So, Chromedome," Solarstorm smiled pleasantly, "What's _your_ job like?"


	6. Vedaniya

"So then, Prowl says 'I assumed you'd come with me,' and like, I have no idea what to say to that, so I'm just silent," Chromedome groaned, swirling the bottle of high grade in his hand.

"No!" Solarstorm gasped, "You didn't!"

"Ugh," Chromedome collapsed his head into his hand, legs crossed where he sat across from Solarstorm on his berth. "I know."

Solarstorm snagged the high grade from him. "You two were so emotionally constipated. Did you ever actually talk about your relationship? Like officially establish you're dating?"

"No," Chromedome sighed, "Never."

"Awful," Solarstorm shook his head and swigged back the high grade through the secondary intake port in his neck, "Absolutely miserable."

"Okay, okay," Chromedome said, sitting up and waving at him, "I got better, though."

"Oh, yeah?" Solarstorm raised an eyebrow, "How so?"

"I have a conjunx endura, thank you very much."

"Really!" Solarstorm gasped, "Who! What's his name? Come on mech, details, details!" 

"He's so smart, and so skilled," Chromedome sighed wistfully, "His name is Mach."

Solarstorm sputtered on his engex. "Pardon?"

"Mach."

"You mean-"

He was interrupted by a ping at the door.

"That's him now!" Chromedome gushed, throwing his hands in the air, "Come in, dear!" 

"Oh, god, Chromedome, I'm right here-"

The door slid open to reveal Solarstorm's supervisor. His smile faltered and wobbled into confusion.

"This is Solarstorm!" Chromedome told him excitedly, "We're friends."

"You're friends?" Mach asked, raising an eyebrow. He stepped inside and the door shut behind him. "That's new."

"He's new! He just got here!" Chromedome explained, "We met today."

"We met today too," Mach said wryly, joining them on the berth and grabbing the high grade from Solarstorm, "He's in my department."

"What a coincidence!" Chromedome exclaimed, "Must be fate."

"You're such a romantic," Mach teased.

"Can't help it," Chromedome purred, leaning forward so that Mach could kiss his blast mask, "You make me feel romantic."

"Aha," laughed Solarstorm nervously. 

"Oh, sorry Storm," Chromedome laughed, "I know romance isn't really everyone's thing." 

"No, no, I'm not judging!" Solarstorm assured him, waving his hands palms out, "I mean, me, nah, I've never felt that way about anyone, but I'm no bigot. I'm cool. Used to march in those pro knock-off protests and everything."

The look Chromedome gave him was utterly bizarre. "Well, uh, on that note- what's your story, huh?"

Solarstorm waved at Mach for the bottle back and took a swig. "I was forged in Tarn before the war, but after Megatron was already stirring up trouble."

"You don't have a Tarnian accent," Mach commented.

"Of course not," Solarstorm scoffed, "You think I want everyone who talks to me to know I'm from Megatron's hometown? No, thank you. I practiced very hard for this accent."

"It's definitely not Tarnian," Chromedome laughed, "You did a good job."

"Right-o," Solarstorm nodded sagely, "Yes, well, things were already tense there and then, so I moved to Iacon and worked as an engineer for a few centuries until things started going sour. It was a nice job for the most part, mostly worked in road design, but I got to do some more exciting projects here and there. It wasn't until the war started I discovered my love of weapon design. Small blessings, eh?"

"True to that," Chromedome murmured, "I always wanted to be a mnemosurgeon- this wasn't exactly what I wanted to do, but- if it weren't for the war I'd never have had the opportunity to do it."

"Small blessings," Mach murmured, and took the bottle back from Solarstorm.

* * *

"Everything is on here," Solarstorm said as he handed the datastick to Brakeline, who flipped it quickly into his subspace.

"Any problems?" he queried.

"Not a one," Solarstorm puffed, "Those idiot Autobrats don't suspect a thing." 

"Heh," Brakeline snorted, "They are really gullible. Don't get too thick a head, though, they don't hesitate to execute traitors."

"I think they actually do much worse to them," Solarstorm said, optics glowing, "They shadowplay them." 

Brakeline raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The Autobots still have mnemosurgeons?"

"Tons of them," Solarstorm went on, "The location is too deep in Autobot territory for a fullscale attack, but I've included the coordinates anyway."

"Excellent," his handler nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're doing an incredible job, Genitus."

Solarstorm waved at him. "Ah, Solarstorm is fine, I'm getting used to it. I have to get back now, before anyone notices I'm gone."

Brakeline nodded and Solarstorm flipped up and into his altmode, shooting off into the distance.

* * *

"Why the long face?" Solarstorm quipped, sitting down at his usual lunch spot across from Chromedome. The other mech looked up at him, optics weary and dull. "Whoa," Solarstorm blinked, his teasing tone dropping away to genuine concern, "Are you alright?"

Chromedome looked away from him, down at his cube. "I can't."

"What, can't say? Cuz it's classified?" Solarstorm scoffed, "Come on, CD. It's me."

Chromedome glanced up at him, and something in his optics changed, in the way he held his shoulders, something that made Solarstorm's fuel tank flip angrily, uncomfortably. Chromedome shook his head and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Do you ever wonder if we're really the good guys?" Chromedome asked. Solarstorm sat up, surprised, and then leaned in and lowered his voice as well.

"What? Why would you say that?"

"I can't," Chromedome repeated, his voice crackling with static, "I can't tell you."

Solarstorm blinked slowly, processing, before he narrowed his optics. "Do you mean… can't, not as in won't, but as in can't?"

Chromedome nodded, his optics brightening.

"Do you mean to tell me," Solarstorm whispered, "That you've been- altered, so that you can't?"

Chromedome nodded harshly. Solarstorm tensed, his spark missing a pulse. "I'm sorry."

"Some days," Chromedome whispered, staring down, "I do things I wish I hadn't."

Solarstorm shivered, looking at his friend's face. He swallowed, energon thick in his throat, and nodded. "I understand. It's a bad day."

"It's a bad day," Chromedome breathed.

The next day, when Solarstorm saw him again, Chromedome had no recollection of the previous day's conversation and had returned to his chipper self. Solarstorm added it in his personal notes, but not in the file he was building for his next contact with his handler.

* * *

"And here is the new particle accelerator," Mach said with a grand gesture, "I'm sure you'll get some mileage out of it."

"Oh, you don't even know!" Solarstorm gushed excitedly, "I can't wait."

"I'll leave you to it, then," Mach laughed, and then paused, "Actually- Chromedome said you were coming over again tonight?"

"Hm?" Solarstorm hummed distractedly, and then looked up, "Oh! Yes. Is that not alright?"

"No, no, it's fine!" Mach assured him, waving his hands dismissively, "More than fine." He paused, voice softening. "I wanted to thank you, actually."

Solarstorm blinked at him. "For what?"

"For being his friend," Mach said, "He's terrible at making friends. He's been- happier, though, lately. So thank you."

Solarstorm felt something funny in his spark chamber, something hot and cold and not altogether pleasant, but he forced himself to shrug casually anyway. "Not a problem."

* * *

"Fascinating," said Solarstorm, peeling back the plating of Chromedome's wrist and inspecting the complex circuitry within. "Do you know how this works?"

"I have a vague idea," Chromedome responded, "I understand how it works, but not why. I know how it feels but I don't know what all the pieces are."

"Hm," hummed Solarstorm thoughtfully, "Brace yourself."

"Wha- ah!" Chromedome hissed as Solarstorm plucked a bundle of wires between a pair of tweezers and pulled it to the side, inspecting the thin circuit board beneath.

"Fascinating," Solarstorm repeated.

"Is it?" Chromedome asked, "You've installed a few of these so far. What are you learning here you don't already know?"

"I don't get any time to look at them when I install them," Solarstorm explained, "Thalamy brings me a set of needles and a mech and watches the entire time. I don't even know who built them, and I don't get time to poke around and really learn how it works."

"Well, do you want me to show you how it works?" Chromedome asked, "I could read you."

Solarstorm flinched and Chromedome yelped as he pinched a piston. "No, um- I'm not comfortable with that."

Chromedome looked hurt, but didn't pull his wrist away. "I wouldn't do anything to you. We're friends."

"No, no, I know that!" Solarstorm said quickly. Chromedome was far too valuable a friend to lose. "I just- I don't like the idea of someone seeing all my memories."

Chromedome hesitated.

"Well- I promise not to read you, then," he said, resolutely, "But you'll still get a feel for how the procedure works."

Solarstorm looked up and squinted suspiciously at him. "If you read me you could just fool around in there so I would think you hadn't."

"I promise, though," Chromedome repeated, "We're friends. I wouldn't lie to you." 

Solarstorm twitched, and before he could stop himself, said, "Alright, then."

He pulled his fingers from the internals of Chromedome's wrist and closed it, turning around where he sat on the floor until his back was to the mnemosurgeon. His spark raced, terrified of what would happen if Chromedome did lie to him. The jig would be up, right here, right now. He didn't know why he was doing this, why he hadn't said no again.

He clenched his hands into fists when he felt Chromedome touch the back of his neck, but stayed completely still, until he felt what he could only describe as a series of pinpricks, and then his optics flickered. 

Chromedome pulled his hand away again.

"See? No read," he said, "Was that helpful?"

Solarstorm stared at the floor, wide-opticced. "Yeah," he answered, slowly, "Yeah, it was."

* * *

Solarstorm bent over his desk, working feverishly on a circuit board that sparked and smoked. His desk was a mess, scattered with notes, diagrams, laser cut metal and alloy mixes. 

"What is this?" 

Solarstorm snapped out of his reverie and looked up, surprised by the voice. Mach was watching his work with curious optics. Solarstorm beamed and shoved over a pile of datapads to pull out another piece of his rough prototype to show what he was working on.

"Chromedome let me take a look at his needles," Solarstorm explained, "And he mentioned how dangerous mnemosurgery really was. I'm working on a design that's a lot less dangerous."

Mach looked nervous. "That's not really our department."

"I know, I know, and I'm sure there's rules against it," Solarstorm waved, "But I can do this. You just have to trust me! It will be worth breaking the rules."

Mach hesitated, glanced around and then nodded. "Don't tell anyone else until you're sure it works, alright?" 

Solarstorm flashed him a thumbs up.

* * *

"Give him another round!" hollered Hardhead, giddy off of engex. Highbrow poured out another mug and slid it across the table to him. Solarstorm grabbed it excitedly.

"If I'd known you lot would throw me a party I would have made you new toys sooner," he snickered, already drunk.

"Your new design is rating in at sixteen times less likely to kill the surgeon," Trepan quipped approvingly, "I certainly appreciate the safety net."

"I told you guys he was cool!" Chromedome beamed, "Actually, frag it, I say we give him a name."

"Ooh, yes!" Hardhead clapped his servos together, "You're an honorary one of us as far as I'm concerned."

"I'm thinking 'Skullgrin,'" Trepan added.

"Terrible!" laughed Highbrow, "How about Brainfart?"

"Hey!" interjected Solarstorm.

"No, no, he's got it!" Chromedome said, slamming his cube down on the table, "Brainstorm."

The table of mnemosurgrons all oohed in sync.

"That's a good one," nodded Trepan.

"Well?" prompted Chromedome, hopefully, "What do you think?"

"I think," said Brainstorm, "I think I like it."

* * *

"My next report," said Brainstorm, handing Brakeline a datastick.

"Perfect," said Brakeline, "Things still going alright?"

"No problems," Brainstorm reported, "No one has any suspicions."

"Fantastic," Brakeline confirmed, "Tarn will be pleased."

"Tarn?" Brainstorm repeated, confused.

"Ah- Damus," Brakeline corrected, "He changed his designation recently. He's been organizing… something, and I think that has something to do with it. He's leaving Grindcore soon."

"Huh," said Brainstorm, slowly. He stared down at his pedes for a moment uncomfortably, lost in thought. "Would you pass on a message to him for me?"

"Of course."

"My old cellmate, Quark," he said, "I think I could convince him to flip. He's brilliant. He would be a great asset. Can you ask Da- Tarn to consider him?" 

Brakeline gave him a curious look that Brainstorm was unable to parse. "Sure," he answered, a strange smile on his face plate. 

He didn't say anything else before he left, and Brainstorm turned and left in the other direction, perturbed. 

When he landed outside the facility, he returned to the ventilation pipe he had used to exit undetected, hidden within a hologram of a tree. He was too bulky and pointy for navigating ventilation shafts like this, as wide as they were, and he found it irritating every time he did. No matter how hard he tried to be stealthy, he banged his wings against the walls time and time again before he dropped down into the waste disposal center, brushing off his legs.

"Brainstorm?" a familiar voice asked. Brainstorm turned, sharply, startled. No one ever came here.

"Mach," he murmured, frozen. 

"What were you doing?" Mach asked, as equally still. Like statues they watched each other, tense. 

"Oh, just playing in the vents," Brainstorm laughed nervously, "Don't you ever get the urge to crawl around in the vents?"

"No," said Mach. 

Brainstorm's face twitched. "You can't tell anyone."

"Where did you go, Brainstorm?" Mach prompted, starting to look angry.

"Just outside for a stroll! Come on, don't you miss the sky? I love flying, my spark yearns for the clouds!"

"Oh my god," Mach said, horrified, "That's why you ask so many questions. That's why you wanted to know how the needles worked. That's why you-"

"Stop," Brainstorm interrupted, "I like you, Mach, we don't have to do this. We can both just walk away and pretend nothing happened." 

"You know I can't do that, Storm," said Mach, his hand reaching to his waist for his comm unit. 

In a panic, Brainstorm yanked a gun he wasn't supposed to have from his subspace and fired quickly. He aimed for the radio and missed, hitting Mach in the thigh.

"Ah!" Mach cried out in pain, stumbling back.

Brainstorm watched in horror, as one watches a train wreck in slow motion, as Mach stumbled back, grabbed at the railing of the platform, and the rusted metal broke beneath his hands. For a moment, everything was silent, as Mach seemed to realize what was happening just a moment before it happened.

Then he fell backward into the waste grinder, and wordlessly disappeared into the behemoth's metal teeth, churning out a fountain of energon over the rest of the garbage it was working through.

Brainstorm said nothing, only shook, optics wide and frightened. The facility alarms blared and the machine shut off as it detected the accident, the room suddenly bathed in red light.

Brainstorm turned and ran.


	7. Gyanavaraniya

Brainstorm felt like he was in a movie.

Chromedome felt like a stranger as he sobbed in his arms, wailing like he was the one that had died. His vocalizer kept failing, shorting out and spitting static, popping as it failed to keep up with his volume. He clung to Brainstorm like a liferaft in a stormy sea, faceplate buried in his chest and arms wrapped around his back, clenched hands shaking against his armor.

He'd never seen Chromedome cry before. He'd seen him tired, often, lonely, sometimes, but sad, never. Now it seemed his sorrow was so endless they might both drown in it.

It didn't seem fair. Not an ounce of it. Not that Mach had caught him, not that he'd escaped undetected, not that he'd tricked Chromedome into caring about him and now he was the only friend he had left. He shouldn't be here. He had no right. It was sickening.

He held him anyway and let him sob, because he felt certain, deep down, that it didn't entirely matter what right he had or what he deserved, Chromedome didn't know, and Chromedome couldn't be left to deal with this alone. No one else was going to help him, not in this dangerous place.

Brainstorm was a Decepticon. He was using these people. He was using them and the goal was to destroy this entire organization, their entire faction. He shouldn't be so upset about a dead Autobot just because he used to be one. Even if he'd liked him. Even if he'd been kind to him.

"I can't," Chromedome gasped between wails, "I want to die, I can't-"

"You don't want to die," Brainstorm hushed him immediately, tightening his arms, "You want to be happy. You don't want to be dead."

"I can't ever be happy again," he sobbed, "It's all ruined, forever, and ever, and there's no point, no way out-"

"Stop, don't say that, don't say that-"

"I've been here so long," Chromedome shook, lubricant streaming down his faceplate until it set his visor at a bubbled out angle, unable to keep up with the flow, "So long, and I can't take it anymore, I can't take the autopsies, I can't take all the edits they're making to me, I can't bear it, any of it-"

"Chromedome-"

"Every day I wake up and go through corpses brains," he cried, "Every day I die a dozen times, shot down by Autobots or Decepticons or I kill myself or I fall out of an aircraft or I step on a mine and I have those memories forever and I can't tell where they end and I start, it all just feels like me even when it's not me and the only thing I had that was real, that was my life was him, I had him, and now he's gone, forever and ever and I have no one else-"

Brainstorm crushed his friend against his chest, his own plating trembling. "You still have me."

Chromedome dug his fingers into Brainstorm's back and nodded. "I still have you," he sniffled, shaking.

Brainstorm knew he'd fucked up.

* * *

They promoted him to Mach's position.

Even still, no one stopped him from taking three days off to take care of Chromedome. He had to go pick up his rations for him from the cafeteria because he wouldn't leave his room. He would barely get out of berth, and the first day he sobbed nonstop, until he ran out of tears and sat silent, hollow, as if he didn't have anything left to give. 

And then they both had to go back to work. There was a war going on. People died every day. Brainstorm went back to R&D. Chromedome went back to autopsies.

He was terrified but not surprised not to find Chromedome in the cafeteria during lunch, but he was in his room when he got off that evening, and he was glad for it. Brainstorm had been worried he might not be, that he might simply walk into the abyss and never be seen again.

"Chromedome," Brainstorm said, as the unlocked door slid open. He laid on his side, silent and still. He didn't respond and Brainstorm sat down next to him, put a hand on his shoulder and shook him. Chromedome's visor was lit, though, and he allowed himself to be pulled into Brainstorm's lap, like a dying animal too tired to fight off a predator. 

"Too much today," he mumbled, "Too much grey."

"You're okay," Brainstorm murmured, "You made it through the day. You just have to keep making it through the day."

"I can't keep doing it," he says quietly, "It's never going to get better."

"It's going to get better."

"It won't," he insisted, "I'm never going to feel right again."

"You'll feel different," Brainstorm argued, "But different doesn't have to be bad. It could still be good."

"I had a thought," Chromedome said, so quietly the words threatened to escape him, "I know it's wrong, but the more I think about it, the better an idea it seems."

"What?"

"It would be easy. So easy."

"Chromedome, what are you talking about?"

Chromedome held up his hand and extended his needles, flexing them open as he watched them. "I could make it stop. I could make all of it stop."

Brainstorm froze, shivering. "What do you mean?"

"He's gone," Chromedome whispered, "He only exists now in my memories, but memories are so easy to change. Just as easily as I can make a Decepticon a loyal Autobot spy, I can make myself happy again."

Brainstorm couldn't speak for a moment, before he grabbed him in his arms and crushed him against his chest. "No, no, CD, you can't, you can't do that!"

"Why not?!" Chromedome demanded, "Why can't I?!"

" _Because_ that's the only place he exists now!" Brainstorm hissed, trembling, "He's gone from the world but you loved him and he gets to stay in the world through you, only through you, and if you forget him he's dead for real, forever. I know it's hard, I know it hurts, but you can't. One day, one day it will hurt less and you'll be glad you still remember him, that you can remember the good parts of him, that you still have him. You'll be glad."

"Will I?" Chromedome says, voice cracking, "Will it matter? Will anything matter? Everyone dies. One day I'll die too. It won't even matter."

"It will. It matters, Chromedome, it matters," Brainstorm whispered, "I promise. Trust me. I promise."

"...I trust you," Chromedome acquiesced. He didn't say anything else.

* * *

Brainstorm sat at his terminal in his quarters, putting together his next datapacket together for his handler. 

The document stared back at him, blank.

He didn't know what to say. What to write. He was faltering. He still felt the Autobots, their ideology was wrong, but now he was beginning to think that his problems with the whole didn't apply to individuals, who, like him, had little choice in their world. Who even knew how much say his friend actually had in what he did or what happened to him, considering how frequently he was edited by his superiors. 

He stared at the document and didn't know what Autobot secrets he wanted to betray.

Eventually, he simply attached his own weapon designs, and nothing else, then left to retrieve energon for Chromedome.

* * *

"I want to work," Chromedome told him, both hands on his cube, legs crossed, staring into the middle distance.

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Brainstorm asked.

"I want to work, and I don't know why," Chromedome murmured, "I'm so miserable I could lay down and die, but something in me is saying 'I want to work, I want to work.'"

Brainstorm was silent.

"Do you know that saying, about the boat?" said Chromedome, still staring at nothing, "That if you replace every part of the boat, is it still the same boat as it was to begin with?"

Brainstorm was silent.

"How much of me is still me?" he went on, "Who will remember who I was when I'm someone else?"

Brainstorm was silent.

* * *

Brainstorm landed with a thump on his pedes at the meeting place.

"I'm here," he said, his voice echoing off the burned out walls of the abandoned compound. 

"It's good to see you again, Genitus."

"Damu- Tarn!" Brainstorm gasped, spinning around as the massive mech stepped out of the shadows. 

"You've done well," he replied, "One of my best pet projects."

"I-" Brainstorm said uncertainly, "Thank you."

"I've handed over control of Grindcore to Dreadwind," Tarn told him, "I'm leaving the position to form a new unit, so I will no longer be in your personal chain of command."

"Ah," said Brainstorm, "That's… unfortunate."

"Is it?"

"...Of course it is," Brainstorm said. He felt awkward, uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what the bit was.

"Well?" Tarn prompted, "Your report?"

"Oh!" Brainstorm cried, "Right!" He quickly dug the datastick out of his subspace and handed it over.

Tarn held it aloft between his fingers, gazing at it in the dim light. "You've done so well," he purred, "An excellent example of Decepticon superiority."

"...Okay…"

Tarn's optics moved down to him, burning red and boring into him like lasers. "You're having regrets."

"What? No!" Brainstorm insisted, a cold lightning strike of fear shooting up his spinal strut.

"You're a terrible liar, Genitus," Tarn sighed, sliding the datastick into his own subspace, "Don't worry, it's quite typical of those in your position. Coercion fuels you only so long before the guilt sets in. In your defense, you made it longer than most."

"What?" Brainstorm asked, feeling very small.

"You're thinking about backing out. You're entertaining the idea of quietly removing your Deceptibrand and becoming a true Autobot again with none the wiser."

"No, I'm- I'm not th-"

"I'm going to explain to you why that's a bad idea," Tarn said, his voice dangerous, leaning down very close to him, "You will not miss contact with your handler, Genitus. Not once. Whether your loyalty is earned through fanaticism or fear, you _will_ be loyal to the Decepticons. And you will do this because if you do not, you will be dragged from whatever home you make by your spine, screaming, and I will personally crush your spark chamber after I have tortured you for so long that you beg me to kill you. Everyone you keep around you will be burned like the Autobot scum they are, any friends you make will be killed slowly, painfully, and they will die knowing that it was your fault, Genitus."

"H- h- I-" Brainstorm trembled, shrinking backward, terrified.

"If you go to the Autobots for help they will kill you, and I will _still_ come and kill everyone you know and care about. If you try to run, I will _still_ come and kill everyone you know and care about, and then I will track you down, one way or another, and I will kill you. You have no say in your future, Genitus. Do you understand me?"

"I- I-" Brainstorm whispered, his optics flared, leaking, shaking, shrinking down as small as he could.

"Ah, yes," Tarn said, leaning back up casually, "You had sent a request at your last meeting, hadn't you? About your cellmate, Quark, was it?"

Brainstorm stared up at him, trembling like a frightened animal, unable to speak. Tarn retrieved something from his subspace and tossed it to him. Brainstorm fumbled for it, holding it in his hands to reveal a Deceptibrand. He looked up at Tarn again, confused.

"What is this?" he asked.

"That's your cellmate," Tarn said, smiling behind his mask, "He was born naturally, unlike you, which made him a prime candidate for recycling. You, however, would never have been useful for such purposes."

"My ce-" Brainstorm began, and then it clicked.

He dropped the Deceptibrand like it had burned his hands and it clattered to the ground. He could see his hands shaking in the corners of his vision, blurring as it tunnelled down to a pinprick, the sound of energon rushing past his audials.

"I hope that satisfies your request," Tarn chuckled, "Well, Genitus, do we understand each other?" 

Brainstorm stared at the Deceptibrand on the ground where it stared back at him with contempt, as if it could speak, as if it would cry out to him _why did you leave me, Genitus? I loved you._

"I…" Brainstorm quavered, "I understand."

"Good," said Tarn, and patted him on the head like an obedient pet, "I hope to see you again someday, Genitus. Now," he shifted his hand to Brainstorm's shoulder, fingers squeezing around his neck tight enough they threatened to snap plating, "Go home, Genitus, go home and do your job."


	8. Antaraya

"Chromedome!" Brainstorm howled through his sobs, banging frantically on his habsuite door, "Chromedome, let me in!" 

The door slid open and Brainstorm stumbled in, his whole frame trembling, optics pouring tears so caustic he could feel rust forming on his faceplate already. He looked up at his only friend's baffled expression as the door shut behind him.

"What?" Chromedome said, "What's wrong? What happened?!"

"Chromedome," Brainstorm sobbed, "Chromedome, I'm so sorry."

"What? Sorry about what?!"

Brainstorm grabbed Chromedome by the collar, looking up at him imploringly. "I didn't want this. I promise you, I didn't want this. It's my fault, though, it's all my fault and I figured it out too late, Chromedome, I am so _sorry._ "

"It's okay, Storm, whatever it is, it's going to be okay," he assured him, but Brainstorm shook his head frantically as he sunk to his knees. 

"I need- I need you- I need you to read me, Chromedome," he choked out, "You need to know, you have to know the truth, everything- and when you know, God, you can do whatever you think I deserve. God, Chromedome," Brainstorm looked up at him again from his knees, "Kill me. Shadowplay me. Hurt me however you want, I won't fight you, because I deserve it and I know it, and I am so sorry."

Chromedome stared at him, optical display confused and unsettled. "I would never hurt you, Storm."

"You have to," Brainstorm begged him, "You have to read me. When you read me, you'll know. You'll understand."

Chromedome hesitated, and then knealt down in front of him. Brainstorm hung his head, and when he felt a gentle hand against the back of his neck he shuttered his optics and took a shuddering breath, waiting for it all to go dark and the world to end or go up in flames of agony he had earned. 

For a moment everything flickered off, and he was alone in the black, all of his senses disconnected. The world was empty and he released himself to the darkness, to what he deserved.

And then his memories flickered up before him, like flipping through scenes in a film but the movie was about him.

"Genitus of Operation: Solar Storm," said the cryo technician who had woken him, the first voice he had ever heard, "Welcome to the world."

"I don't understand," said Chromedome, behind him. Brainstorm spun around, looking at himself, younger, cleaner, colder, still thawing, and Chromedome with his narrowed visor and confused field, "What is this?"

"Oh, no, no no," Brainstorm rasped, as dawning horror chilled his core and the picture changed, dropping from atmo at terminal velocity, some idiot's pede colliding with his head, "Don't make me watch-"

War raged onward in flickers of indefinable battles, none much different than the one prior. On an otherwise sunny, beautiful day his unit skirmished with a Decepticon supply train. A blue-black plane with a blown out engine managed to escape from the firefight and shoot off into the distance, fleeing for their life. Genitus's commander yelled at him to follow and he did, and Brainstorm watched him fly deeper into enemy territory from the ground.

"Who are you?" Chromedome asked, standing beside him.

The Decepticon's other engine finally gave up the ghost and sent the mech crashing to the ground in a violent spinout, spitting out black smoke as they did. Genitus landed in front of them with a thump, raising his gun as the smoke cleared.

In the crater of the Decepticon's crashed landing he saw a young mech curled up and staring at him in terror, trembling and crying, arms clutched over his head but optics wide.

Genitus held his gun trained on his enemy's chest, over his spark chamber. His hand did not shake but neither did he pull the trigger. 

"Please don't kill me," said the Decepticon, voice barely a whisper, "I don't want to die."

Genitus stood as frozen as a statue, the smoke clearing further, sunlight cutting through. 

Genitus lowered his gun.

The Decepticon's expression of pure relief was short lived, however, as a bullet came from behind Genitus and went straight through his optic and then his brain, killing him instantly. He fell back with a thump and Genitus spun around, only to take the second shot in the wing and cry out.

"Primus damned knock offs," his unit commander snarled, "Cowards, the lot of you. None of you can ever take the shot." He took one more shot, hitting Genitus in the leg and sending him to the ground. "Stay here. Try to die with some dignity." 

Genitus was wailing as his unit commander transformed and flew off, leaving him behind miles deep in Decepticon territory, too injured to fly, barely able to walk, with nothing but a stranger's corpse for company.

"I'm an idiot," Brainstorm said, voice hoarse.

Chromedome stood behind him in his cell in Grindcore, watched him bite a stranger's throat in a fight, watched him feed Quark, watched him meet Damus, and did not let him sink quietly into oblivion.

Their first meeting, Brainstorm calling Chromedome his first friend. Brainstorm could see his friend (ex-friend) (victim) begin to cry, silently, lubricant from the corners of his visor. Minds linked, Brainstorm could taste his grief already like it was his own.

It wasn't until he got to Mach that the anger started. No sooner did he see blood than Chromedome ripped his hand out of Brainstorm's neck and fell back hard on his aft, kicking his pedes against the floor to put distance between the two of them until his back hit the wall. Optics wide and wet, frame trembling, he pointed at Brainstorm accusingly.

"You," he cried, " _You-_ "

"I'm sorry!" Brainstorm wailed, still on his knees, "Chromedome, I am _so_ sor-"

"Get out!" Chromedome screamed.

Brainstorm whimpered pathetically, lips pulled back in a shaking grimace. "Chromedo-"

" _Get out!_ " Chromedome shrieked, launching himself to his feet and extending the needles on both hands as if they were _claws_ ready to rend the life from his body, and Brainstorm wished he would. Instead he scrambled backward, to his feet and out the door as he'd been told.

He stood in the hallway, leaning back against the door as the tears kept coming, and inside the room he heard screaming, glass shattering, wood breaking. 

Brainstorm went down to waste disposal, to the platform with the broken railing, where caution tape had hastily been tacked up to fill the gap. He gathered it up in the middle and folded it into a fist, pulling until it broke and leaving the platform into the grinder open.

Below him it churned and spun, it's loud metallic shrieking familiar from his nightmares. From here he could still see Mach's dried energon on the edges of the inside of the unit, where it was apparently too hard to clean. 

"You deserve to die," he murmured to himself, "But maybe you don't have the right."

He watched the grinder for some time, and then removed his blast mask and slid aside the hidden tab within to reveal his Deceptibrand, forged from the metal of his own spark chamber. A piece of his body. A piece of his soul.

He removed it from the mask and held it in his hands.

The world would have been better off without him in it. Perhaps Primus had always intended for it to be that way, and that's why he had never been born, had been made by a scientist playing God rather than the real deal. Maybe he was wrong from the start, and there had never been any chance at all. in his somewhat brief life, he had been cared for by very few. It boiled down to, at its core, two people. Quark had loved him. Chromedome had trusted him.

And he had repaid both of them with pain, and death, and suffering. He had come into their lives bearing gifts of agony and betrayal, of deceit and selfish desires. He had ruined the only two people that had ever loved him, and he could never, ever fix it. 

In the end, Quark had been right. There were no good guys in this war. Not the Autobots, not the Decepticons, and certainly not him. It didn't matter who won. They all lost.

The brand clutched in his palm reflected the overhead lights, shimmering still in its newness. He saw his face reflected back at himself on it and tilted it away, held it out over the edge.

And then he dropped it.

It disappeared into the churning teeth of the grinder, devoured like scrap metal. Brainstorm felt a strange pang of hurt in his spark, as if he could feel that tiny part of him being destroyed.

Brainstorm shut his optics and willed himself to take the step, to go over the edge. His pedes stayed still, and he scrunched his faceplate up, begging himself to just _do_ it, and still, he was frozen. 

He raised a single, shaky pede, barely hovering over the edge, when his comm unit rang and he stepped back.

"Chromedome," he whispered, staring down at the grinder.

"Where are you?" Chromedome's voice was hoarse, staticcy.

"Waste disposal," he answered honestly, "I'm going to kill myself."

"Don't! Don't do that. Don't."

Brainstorm watched garbage as it entered the great metal maw of the beast and vanished. "I'll do whatever you want me to."

"I don't want you to die," he said wearily, and then paused for a few moments, as if he didn't know what else to say, "I want to hate you. I really do."

"You should."

"Viewing your memories gives me such a wealth of data," Chromedome went on, "What you see, sure, but also what you feel, smell- what you think. So I know you- you really _do_ care about me, a hell of a lot, and it- I can't want you dead. No matter how hard I try."

Brainstorm was silent. The grinder churned.

"I think," Chromedome murmured, "I think in your place I would have made the same decisions."

"Don't absolve me of guilt," Brainstorm responded, "I could have done better."

"Brainstorm, no matter what you have done," Chromedome said, his voice shaky, "I have done _worse._ "

"Not to me," Brainstorm whispered.

"Don't kill yourself," Chromedome retorted, "You owe me that."

"I owe you that."

"So there's a couple of problems im facing," Chromedome continued, "I can't know this. I can't know any of this. Next time someone reads me, that's it. You're dead."

"Wait-"

"So I have to make sure I don't know this," Chromedome continued, ignoring him, "And if I'm doing that anyway, I might as well finish the job."

"CD…" Brainstorm croaked as the tears began welling up yet again. 

"Most importantly, though," Chromedome said, his voice shaking, "I don't think I can forgive you for this, Storm. Maybe not _ever._ I need to, though. You're my only friend," his voice cracked on the word, "And you can't survive in here without friends. I need you, Brainstorm."

"I can't be what you need," Brainstorm quavered, trembling.

"You already were," Chromedome sniffled, "So just be that again."

Brainstorm watched the grinder churn, and then turned away from it. "Anything. Anything for you."

"Do you remember the boat, Storm? With all the new pieces?"

"I remember."

"Remember the boat for me," Chromedome murmured resolutely, "And don't leave me here."

"Never," Brainstorm whispered. 

Chromedome hung up.

Brainstorm turned to look once more at the grinder and then away again. He opened a subspace compartment in his arm and retrieved the Deceptibrand Tarn had given him.

It didn't feel like Quark. It felt like nothing. Like cold, dead metal. It didn't have his field, his warmth. He closed his eyes and held it to his forehead and tried to imagine him, but he didn't know what to imagine. He'd never even seen his face. 

Brainstorm removed his blast mask and slid the last bit of Quark inside, then pulled the tab to hide it. He replaced the mask over his faceplate.

Brainstorm left waste disposal as if in a trance, made his way back up to the residential area, to the upper floor where Chromedome's habsuite was. He knocked at the door.

"Oh, hey, Storm," said Chromedome as he opened the door, "What's up?"

Brainstorm eyed him carefully for a moment before he spoke. "I told you I was coming over to tighten up some couplings in your arm, remember?"

"Hm?" Chromedome's visor blinked, "No, but you know what a scatterbrain I am. Come on in." He stepped aside and waved at Brainstorm to enter.

"I always forget how big your berth is," Brainstorm commented, looking at Chromedome's two person berth, "Mine's so much smaller."

"Oh, yeah," Chromedome laughed, "I think they try to treat their mnemosurgeons nice so we won't leave, you know?" 

"Yeah," said Brainstorm.

Chromedome sat down on the berth and crossed his legs, holding out his arm, wrist up. "So, you're going to tune me up then, huh?"

"Yeah," Brainstorm said. _I have wronged you,_ Brainstorm thought. _I have left you scars that will never heal. I break everything I touch and I have broken you, too. I won't leave you here, or anywhere, ever again. I'll be here as long as you need me._ "I'll take care of you." _Forever._


End file.
